


a heart for a soul (i've got no control)

by takajima



Category: Hey! Say! JUMP, Johnny's Entertainment
Genre: Alternate Universe - Magic, Ambiguous/Open Ending, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-28
Updated: 2017-08-28
Packaged: 2018-12-20 22:18:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11930430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/takajima/pseuds/takajima
Summary: When Yamada sees a luggage in his comfortably single room, hisprivatespace, he promptly loses his shit. He’s still upset at lunch, so when Chinen flickers out and vanishes, dropping his fourth spoon, he doesn’t offer the latter his.





	a heart for a soul (i've got no control)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [obsessedmak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/obsessedmak/gifts).



> I hope you like this, [obsessedmak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/obsessedmak/pseuds/obsessedmak)! Special thanks to my beta for helping me out on such short notice ilu

“ _Can I take over the pain that eats you away; the hole—_ ”

Yamada lets the door slam shut as he enters their shared room, eyes darting to the broken piano in the corner. There are fingerprints on the keyboard cover, where Nakajima’s fingers have been.

Now that Yamada’s in the room, the piano is closed, but Yamada knows better. He heard the sound of the wonky keys being pressed when he was outside. The walls in the building are thin, but this has never bothered Yamada, and he doesn’t see a reason to begin now.

Yamada meets Nakajima’s eyes, raises a brow and says nothing. He notices the barest hint of a smile, before it slips into a mask of nonchalance, the other looking anywhere but his eyes. That’s okay. Better to have him look at the charred wall than have him look at Yamada. Nakajima’s eyes are way too sad, even for a normie with an unspeakable past. Yamada would be more curious, but frankly speaking he doesn’t give a fuck.

He clears his throat, and Nakajima sidesteps to allow him to pass.

Yamada knows he’s a freakshow; with the way he carries himself like he’s waiting for the world to burn down. Perhaps it might be for the better, he thinks, swinging his legs over the railing of the balcony.

 

When Yamada sees a luggage in his comfortably single room, his _private_ space, he promptly loses his shit. He’s still upset at lunch, so when Chinen flickers out and vanishes, dropping his fourth spoon, he doesn’t offer the latter his.

He eyes the newcomer briefly, who seems to be folding and refolding the same towel multiple times. Of all people, they had to put him with a fucking normie. He says as much to the newcomer, who smiles brightly at him.

Yamada scoffs. “You don't have to pretend like you like it here,” he says, because it’s true. The other boy’s face visibly falls.

He’s not blind; he’s seen the sign outside of their shared room. The newcomer’s name is Nakajima Yuto, and he doesn’t have a story. Or so the new shiny placard outside Yamada’s— _their_ —room says. He’s not Chinen, he’s not going to snoop.

“Nakajima, right?” A nod. “I like to use the balcony sometimes; best to leave me alone while I’m at it.”

“You smoke?” Nakajima seems bothered by this. “It’s not good for your heart, you know.”

Yamada tells him as it is. “I don’t have one.” Nakajima visibly stiffens. “Besides, isn’t it worse for your lungs?”

He eyes the battered guitar case on Nakajima’s bed. “By the way, I hate music.” He doesn't tell him that Okamoto in Room 401 doesn’t. The normie can make his own friends, Yamada decides.

He’s had enough interaction for the day, he thinks, as he exits the now shared room into the empty hallway.

 

“I thought you were at Chinen’s.” His tone is almost accusing, and Yamada wants none of it.

He closes his eyes and exhales briefly. “I was, but then they started eyefucking so I had to get out of there.”

Upside-down Nakajima shuffles out of view, and Yamada lets himself relax. Deep breaths, and maybe whatever blood he has left in him will go to his head.

“Jealous?” For a moment, Yamada had forgotten he was still there.

“Of what?”

 

When he wakes up, Yamada sees that Nakajima has replaced the desk on his side of the room with the broken piano from the strange spiral staircase on the third floor.

Nakajima’s gaze meets his, almost in defiance, and Yamada rolls his eyes. He’s too tired for this bullshit. Yamada rolls over so that he’s facing the wall, and goes back to sleep.

 

Sometimes, Yamada thinks he can hear a heartbeat. He presses the heel of his palm into his chest, so hard that it fucking hurts, and he’s shaking and gasping for air—but nothing.

Sometimes, Yamada hopes.

 

He decides to skip lunch, instead choosing to take a walk aimlessly. Yamada must have been spacing out, because he doesn’t notice where he’s going and gets whacked in the face by one of Yabu’s wings.

By the time Yamada gets to dinner he feels perfectly neutral, until he learns that his new roommate’s got himself into trouble.

But Takaki is a fucking idiot who can hardly keep his head—literally, so Yamada makes no move to stop him when the guy grabs his own head and hurls it at Nakajima’s skull.

Normie’s got to learn his place somehow.

“Oi Yama-chan, this your roommate?” Takaki snarls, head now re-attached to the rest of his body.

“I’m not his keeper, Yuya.”

Yamada sinks into the seat next to Chinen, stealing a fry.

“Hey!” The latter protests, but Yamada waves him off.

“I’ll get you new forks.”

“Bring me at least three!” As if on cue, Chinen flickers, disappearing into thin air. His fork clatters to the floor.

 

“My uncle, he runs this place.” Apparently nightly conversations have become part of their pre-slumber routine. Yamada was not aware of this.

“Kamenashi?” Yamada scoffs. Nakajima doesn’t answer, so Yamada takes it as his cue to continue. “Y’know what they think about him? They say he’s a traitor.” He pauses, letting that sink in the normie. Yamada doesn’t know if Nakajima is bothered by this fact, and he can’t be bothered to squint in the dark to tell. “That glove that he’s always wearing? It isn’t a glove.”

“Then what is it?”

“It’s a mechanical hand. He was one of us, until he got all this money and made himself a replacement body part. They think it’s why he made this place, because he felt bad.”

“Then what does Yamada-kun think?”

“No one really cares.”

 

“Yama-chan.”

Yamada doesn’t want to answer him. The faint glow of Nakajima’s reading light enables him to see the asymmetrical pattern on the ceiling. He stares, and it slowly starts fading into a soft blur.

“Yamada-kun.” Fucker.

“What.”

“You didn’t help me when Takaki-kun threw his head at me.”

“Should I have?”

Nakajima doesn’t answer this time.

“Word of advice, normie. The more body parts you have intact, the harder it is to understand us.”

“How did you do it?” It baffles Yamada that he knows what Nakajima means by this.

“I can’t,” Yamada says, by means of explanation. As an afterthought, he adds, “They didn’t expect me to.” Better to end the conversation now. “When you’re done, please turn off your light.”

“Good night, Yamada-kun.”

If he doesn’t answer, maybe Nakajima will think he’s asleep.

 

The light switch is flipped on. Yamada squints at the sudden brightness, but he isn’t quick enough to react before there is another weight on his mattress.

Nakajima is looking at him with a strange look in his eyes, but his eyes are no longer sad, just strangely determined.

“I care.”

Yamada pushes himself into a sitting position, nodding for Nakajima to continue. Before he can register this, his hands are held in the latter’s cold ones.

Nakajima’s grip is way too tight.

“What—”

“I care about what you think, Yamada-kun,” Nakajima begins, an oddly pained lilt in his voice. “And I want you to know that my uncle did it for me. He might have betrayed them, but that was for me.”

“Okay?”

“I was five and I really wanted to learn how to play baseball. He got the hand so he could teach me.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“I just don’t want you to blame him.”

“I don’t blame anybody.” Yamada snorts. “But maybe you should be more careful with this information. People might hate you for this.”

“Do you hate me?”

“I can never hate anybody.” Yamada is simply tired.

Now Nakajima looks guilty for asking.

“You can let go of my hands now.”

“Sorry.”

“And go back to your own bed.”

“Sorry.”

“Goodnight.”

 

  
When Yamada goes for breakfast, Takaki seems to have taken Nakajima under his wing, protective mother hen stance completely activated.

“Didn’t realise you took in strays too.”

Nakajima doesn’t respond to the obvious jibe, but Takaki kicks Yamada under the table. Yamada wants to glare, but he looks down, unwrapping his melon bun.

“He’s pretty misunderstood, just like you.”

Yamada scoffs, but doesn’t deign that comment a response. There is no point in trying to refute Takaki’s logic.

If there is someone who would accept the normie, it’s Takaki. Sure, his head is barely attached to his body and he is about as bright as a spoon, but his heart is kind and gentle. He has one; Yamada sees him with Chinen. Takaki has a soft spot for the pitiful ones, the basket cases like Yamada.

“Don’t antagonise Ryosuke, he’s adapting.” This is why Chinen is his best friend.

Yamada wordlessly hands Chinen his melon bun.

 

Yamada knows it’s bound to happen, the way Nakajima keeps sending him worried glances from his side of the room. It just happens when he least expects it to.

“Your roommate keeps calling services.”

Of all people, of course they send Yabu. “Why?” Yamada asks, opening his eyes to stare at the other’s floating neon yellow shoes.

“He thinks you’re trying to kill yourself.”

Yamada almost chokes on air, but he’s laughing.

“Don’t laugh at the normie, he doesn’t know stuff.” Yabu’s feathers brush against Yamada’s belly when he says this, and the latter squirms. Yabu is definitely doing it on purpose.

Yamada wants to roll his eyes, but instead he shuts them tightly. “I have to share my room, and now I don’t even get my alone time?”

“Do we need to stage an intervention? Chinen is worried.”

Upside down Yabu would look rather intimidating, but Yamada wouldn’t know fear even if it hit him on the head with a metal rod.

“I’m adapting.” Yamada cringes at the second word, adapting means accepting his fate, that Nakajima’s presence is not a short-term affair.

Yabu does not look impressed. “Adapt faster.”

 

Sometimes, Yamada has nightmares.

It is always the same hospital room, the same body on the bed. The same heart rate monitor that beeps, slowly, steady, then flatlines.

Yamada screams.

 

The doors to the chairman’s office are clear, just like the entire office. It was said that Kamenashi preferred an open concept, and believed in keeping ‘no secrets’ from those in the facility. Yamada doesn’t buy it, but then again he doesn’t believe in anything.

It is not his first time here, he used to be summoned to this very room much more often when he first arrived, but it was mostly for feedback.

This time, Yamada is here on his own accord.

The room is thankfully empty, save for the man himself, who appears to be studying some charts about dietary restrictions.

Yamada clears his throat.

 

Yamada’s entire body is still shaking when he wakes up, his stomach acids churning in a way that only serves to make him nauseous.

He never remembers the nightmares, but they leave him awake and paralysed in the middle of the night, blunt nails digging half-moons into his palm.

“Yama-chan, are you okay?” This time, he seems to have woken Nakajima too.

Yamada hums. He hopes he doesn’t sound too off, but he’s too wound up to care.

“Hey, move over a bit.”

Yamada turns towards where Nakajima should be, but the latter is not on his own bed. Instead, Yamada sees a faint outline that looks like the latter standing beside his bed.

He’s too tired to argue with him, so he shifts closer to the wall, bringing his duvet with him.

The bed dips with the weight of another, and Yamada feels Nakajima pull at his duvet. He doesn’t let him have it, because he’s cold, damn it.

Yamada hears Nakajima huff, and expects the latter to just give it up. The last thing he expects is for Nakajima to wrap himself around Yamada and the duvet, clinging to him like a fucking barnacle.

He falls asleep to the slow rhythm tapped on his blanket.

 

“Ah, Yamada-kun, what can I do for you today?”

The chairman doesn’t look too surprised to see him, so Yamada gets straight to the point.

“The guy that lives with me, he—”

He is cut off by Kamenashi, “Yes, he’s such a nice boy, isn’t he? Plays music too, do you get along well?”

Yamada glares. The chairman knows very clearly how much he doesn’t like noise; the latter has specifically requested a yearly shipment of earplugs for personal use.

“Why?”

“It’s about time you got some company, isn’t it?” Kamenashi says this, but it isn’t an answer.

 

“It’s a secret,” Chinen says, and Yamada wholeheartedly believes him. When he asks why Chinen didn't ask Takaki, his best friend insists that he would combust if Takaki touched him.

Yamada dutifully keeps his left hand on Chinen’s right for the entire duration of their lunch.

It works.

His best friend doesn’t even flicker once.

 

Takaki says he’s trying to quit smoking, so Yamada acquires his lighter. He also steals a bottle of perfume from Kamenashi, who doesn’t call him out on it.

Yamada gets to work.

Armed with the lighter and the perfume bottle, he sits cross-legged at the foot of his bed.

It is at the exact moment when he creates his first fireball that Nakajima walks in.

The normie screams.

“What the fuck are you doing, are you trying to get us killed?” Nobody comes running, because by now, all their neighbours are used to Nakajima over-reacting.

“You wish death were that easy,” Yamada snorts, nose wrinkling at the overpowering smell of perfume in the room. He might have sprayed too much.

Nakajima does not seem comforted by his words. “Why?!”

Yamada coughs, the fumes are really getting to him in the confines of their room. He’s going to have to air it out later. “I was hoping I could maybe burn the piano and make it look like an accident.”

“Yamada-kun!”

“I haven't actually done it yet.”

“Yet?!”

The wall at the foot of Yamada’s bed remains unfortunately, charred.

 

  
“Brrgh,” Yamada says into the darkness surrounding him. He belatedly realises that that’s not all that surrounds him, a body that looks suspiciously like Nakajima Yuto is also clinging to him.

He squirms, but the arms only wind around him tighter.

“Yuto, what the fuck.”

“’M sleepy.”

If Yamada relaxes against Yuto’s chest, it’s because he’s relieved that Inoo isn’t falling through their ceiling today.

 

  
“ _Guess I’d rather hurt than feel nothing at—_ ”

Yamada stops in the doorway, blinking at Nakajima. “Rude.”

Logically, Yamada knows he can avoid such situations like this by just walking away, the scratch of Nakajima’s nails against the guitar strings easily audible prior to his entrance. But Chinen just had to drop a bucket of paint onto his pants, and now he needs new ones.

Nakajima might be tall, but Yamada isn’t blind. He can clearly see that the guitar case above the piano is empty. The normie’s body doesn’t entirely hide the guitar from view, and Yamada doesn’t miss the bean sprout-shaped shadings on the papers scattered on the floor.

Yamada makes no move to help him.

“Do you want to take this to Okamoto’s room? You know who he is right? He’s the guy with—”

“Yamada-kun, maybe you can be the one to leave.” Nakajima says this fast, like _Yamada’s_ the one imposing.

Or maybe he is.

“I want my alone time too.” If Nakajima is nervous, he sure isn’t showing it.

“Fine,” Yamada says, taking care not to grit his teeth too much as he exits. Yamada is nothing but honest, almost painfully so, but when it comes to actual conflict, his resolution is usually simple avoidance. “You have two hours.”

Besides, he knows he is too tiny to go against someone as tall as Nakajima, since he hasn’t seemed to age since he was fourteen.

 

The tail end of summer is filled with rain batting against their shared window, and this time a very muddy Nakajima.

Yamada frowns. He opens his mouth to tell him not to track any dirt in, because Yamada is the one who does most of the cleaning, but the next sentence Nakajima says makes Yamada stop.

“Yabu wanted to play soccer.”

“But he—” Yamada doesn’t finish the sentence; it’s impossible. He can’t bring himself to say it.

“Well, he wanted to, so.” Nakajima says this as if it is a good enough explanation. His sneakers look like they’ve seen better days.

“You went outside?”

“Yeah.”

“Like beyond? Or—”

“Not beyond.” Of course, the normie would be a stickler to the rules.

“But how?”

“I’ll bring you, next time.” Nakajima says, like a promise. Yamada knows better than to believe him, but the curious part of him puts up a good fight, and hopes.

 

It’s so easy for Yamada to push the arm around him off, but today, Nakajima is warm, so he lets it be.

He falls asleep to the latter’s heavy breathing.

 

It is straight out of a scene from one of those romance mangas Yamada used to adore as a child, except that Nakajima would make a terrible male lead. The latter is shivering as he lets out sneeze after sneeze, but stubbornly refuses to let go of the oars to let Yamada row instead.

They end up going in circles.

Nakajima looks genuinely confused and awfully put out, and Yamada can’t help the laugh that comes out. It is just so silly, the perplexed expression on Nakajima’s face combined with the fact that the left oar was just hanging in the air, barely grazing the surface of the water.

Yamada takes pity on him for once, and snatches the oars over.

He has no idea where they are going; his companion sneezes too much to be of any help. Still, Yamada decides to slow down at some point, forearms getting tired with the prolonged exercise.

“Look!”

Yamada pauses mid-stretch to turn. He never knew there were fireflies in this area. He lets himself exhale, committing the view to memory.

A clank breaks him out of his thoughts, and Yamada turns to see Nakajima brandish a jar out of nowhere.

Yamada doesn't want to know why he knows what the latter is thinking. He shrugs. “My arms are shorter than yours; I can’t help you.”

 

Yamada leaves with a shivering Nakajima, clutching a jar tightly to his chest. Months ago it would have been annoying, the way the taller boy never stops smiling, but now Yamada isn’t the slightest bit bothered.

 

Sometimes, Yamada dreams.

“Nii-chan!”

In these dreams he is happy, his heart pounding fast as his seven-year-old body runs through the cornfields.

Even at five, Misaki is already faster than him. He pouts, but lets her flick him on the forehead like they agreed.

“Come on, keep up!” This is how Yamada wants to remember her, healthy and fast, never out of breath. “The soccer club won’t accept you if you’re this slow!”

Red-faced and panting, seven-year-old Yamada doesn’t stop running.

 

In a dark room, just barely illuminated by the dying firefly in the jar, two bodies lie close on a single bed.

The chest of the smaller boy glows a soft blue.

A thump.

 

A heartbeat.


End file.
